


Little by Little

by paramountie



Category: DCU (Comics), Grayson (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Falling In Love, Food, M/M, Mind Control, Television Watching, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 10:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11918688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paramountie/pseuds/paramountie
Summary: “This apartment isn’t as secure as you think,” Tiger said, slamming the door and clicking the deadbolt shut. That’s all there was: a deadbolt and a flimsy lock. Tiger had seen more security on the door of abandoned shacks.“It’s my sanctuary,” Dick said. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his arm- shoulder dislocated- was hanging limp against his side. Even with all that, a wild grin was split open across his face. You’d never be able to tell from his expression that he was injured at all.“It’s a shitty sanctuary,” Tiger replied, “Now sit down.”-Or: Six times Tiger found himself stuck in Bludhaven.





	Little by Little

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】Little by Little|渐近](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16739539) by [Kyoukaisenk2s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyoukaisenk2s/pseuds/Kyoukaisenk2s)



> This is part of a series, but all of the sections are intended to stand on their own & are complete.
> 
> The timeline in this is mostly pre-reboot, with occasional new 52/rebirth stuff thrown in (like Tiger). Bludhaven is still around and the case at the end borrows heavily from Nightwing (1996) 129-132. 
> 
> Thank you to my lovely beta, pavonem!
> 
> Edit: 9/7/17 One of the awesome commenters below pointed out that I've left out any mention of Tiger praying or thinking of prayer, at times when he should be thinking about it. This was a major error on my part, so I edited a few transition paragraphs to more accurately include this. I’m sorry to anyone I might have offended, and if I make any more mistakes about Tiger's religion, feel free to call me out! I don’t think I’ll make more edits to this fic, since it’s already posted, but I’ll keep comments in mind when I’m writing the sequel. I want to be as accurate as possible, because Tiger’s identity as a Muslim is an important part of his character.

Every single inch of the wallpaper in Dick Grayson’s bathroom was covered in pink roses. There was a veritable cacophony of roses, each one in different stage of bloom. It looked like something that you’d find in the bathroom of a ninety-year-old serial killer. The sight of it made Tiger physically ill.

Dick insisted that the nausea was from the blood loss.

“You don’t understand interior decorating,” Dick said, as he foraged through his medicine cabinet for a first aid kit that he swore existed.

_Of course I have a first aid kit, Tiger. I get stabbed three times a day, Tiger. Proper preparation prevents poor performance, Tiger._

At this point, most of the stuff in Dick’s bathroom cabinets had been dumped onto the floor. The floor also happened to be where most of Tiger’s blood was currently residing. It was a grisly combination. A bag of cotton balls and some off-brand ibuprofen had already been lost to the flood.

“I know ugly when I see it,” Tiger said.

It was impossible to tell which was worse: watching blood pour through his fingers, or looking at Dick Grayson’s wallpaper. It seemed the only option he was left with was looking at Dick. His torn costume, his sweat-soaked hair, the white flash of his skin. Somehow, after several hours of fighting, he still managed to be the least hideous thing in this bathroom.

“Thanks, Tiger,” Dick said, “I think you’re cute too.”

Before Tiger could reply, Dick said “Aha!” and pulled a white plastic case out of the bottom cabinet.

“I told you I had one,” he said, cracking open the box and rummaging through it.

“Patch me up, then gloat.”

“Oh, Tiger,” Dick said, winking over his shoulder. Lasciviously. “I can do both at the same time.”

Death would be kinder than Dick Grayson.

“I should have known,” Dick said, as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves, “that this would be how I’d get you out of your clothes.”

“You should have,” Tiger said, “Now stop talking and stitch me up.”

“I wonder how you’re going to get me out of _my_ clothes.”

“I’ve done that,” Tiger said, and Dick gave a questioning hum. He’d picked up a pair of scissors and started slicing away what remained of Tiger’s undershirt. “When we were sent to retrieve the Kryptonite necklace.”

“That doesn’t count,” Dick said. “You weren’t even looking.”

“I was otherwise engaged.”

Dick had filled a syringe with saline and started cleaning the wound. It was thin, but deep, carving across Tiger’s ribs. He’d been so preoccupied with the battle that he wasn’t sure what it was that cut him open. He hadn’t even noticed the bleeding until he and Dick were halfway to the apartment.

“I don’t think it counts,” Dick said, dropping the syringe onto the floor and wiping the edges of the wound with gauze. His movements were quick, and professional, like he’d done this a thousand times before.

How young had he been the first time he’d had to stitch Batman back together? The first time he’d had to sew up his own skin?

As Dick started stitching, Tiger squeezed his eyes shut. The pain was negligible, but holding still was easier when he centered himself. Breathed through it. Separated his mind and his body.

Even after all this, anxiety buzzed faintly in Tiger’s chest. He hated to be this vulnerable. Reliant on the kindness of someone like Dick Grayson.

His mother used to tell him that if he could not survive alone, then there was no point to surviving at all.

Tiger wondered what lessons Batman had taught Dick. They were probably all horrifyingly saccharine.

“You still with me?” Dick said, and Tiger opened his eyes.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“Of course you are.”

Tiger didn’t dignify this with a response. Surely, if he stopped responding, Dick would eventually stop talking. It was like training a dog. 

“You know, a year ago you wanted to kill me,” Dick said, “And now I’m nursing you back to health. Isn't it funny how life works out?”

“I still want to kill you.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s taking you so long?”

“I'm a busy man. Your death is low on my list of priorities.”

“Well, that hurts.”

Against his better judgment, Tiger huffed out a laugh. 

“I’ll kill you now, if you like.”

“Well, let me finish this first. It's some of my best work. I'm going to put a picture on Instagram.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The thread tugged against Tiger’s skin as Dick tied it closed. He ripped open a bandage, and then there was the press of Dick’s gentle fingers against Tiger’s skin. For a moment, Tiger closed his eyes and let himself focus on that. Dick’s fingers and the hum of his breath. The rolling silence in the air.

“You going to stay here tonight?” Dick asked. There was a rush of water from the sink. “Or are you going to try to walk back to your safe house in the middle of the night? With a stomach wound?”

“It’s nothing.” Tiger peeled off the remnants of his ruined shirt and dumped them onto the floor. Not that it helped much. There was blood spattered all over his pants too. And his boots, arms, face. He was going to have to borrow clean clothes from Dick. That would be more painful than the ripped up stomach.

“Stay here,” Dick said, turning towards Tiger and leaning a hip against the counter. “I’ve got a comfy couch.”

Tiger watched Dick for a moment, weighing his options. He was sure that he could walk back, if necessary. The question was whether or not it was necessary.

Dick offered up his most charming, dimpled grin. That grin had never convinced Tiger of anything, but Dick never stopped trying. His persistence was almost admirable.

“Fine,” Tiger said, “But I might kill you in the night.”

“You gotta do what you gotta do,” Dick said.

***

Somehow, Dick managed to find clothes for Tiger- a holey pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt with a Batman logo. The pants had been stolen from one of Dick’s brothers, and the shirt was a gag gift from a superhero Tiger had never even heard of. Dick had such a large network of friends and family members, it was a wonder he could keep track of any of them. Tiger still wasn’t sure where the family ended and the friends began.

Dick set Tiger up on the sagging couch, with a knitted blanket and a pillow. Then he began the long, arduous process of cleaning the blood-soaked bathroom. If the profuse swearing floating down the hallway was any indication, he had some trouble with it. 

Any other night, Tiger would have offered to help. Or at least, Tiger would have stood in the doorway and watched Dick struggle, pointedly not helping. Or Dick would have would have swindled him into doing all the work. As it was, all Tiger could do was lie on Dick Grayson’s lumpy couch and stare at the walls.

There must have been about a thousand framed pictures up there. Most of them seemed to be some variation on the theme of Dick, posing with another dark-haired boy. Dick making bunny ears behind a boy with a scowl in his face. Dick resting his elbow on top of another boy’s head. Dick, young now, and with round, pink cheeks, next to someone that Tiger recognized as Bruce Wayne. Bruce was solemn, more serious than he was in most pictures. Dick was effervescent, climbing up Bruce’s arm like Bruce is his own personal jungle gym.

There was an ease in Dick’s body language in all of the photographs. Even in the ones where he wasn’t smiling, he seemed happy and comfortable. When he was in Spyral, Tiger never saw him like that. He’d grin, crack jokes, harass Tiger to his wit’s end, but the tension in his shoulders never dissipated.

He’d always known that Dick wasn’t meant to be a spy. But he’d never realized the toll it had taken on him. 

“I hope no cops visit me tomorrow,” Dick said, as he reappeared in the living room. He rubbed at his eyes, haggard. “Somehow we got blood on the ceiling.”

“I can wash it in the morning,” Tiger said, and Dick waved a hand at him.

“Don’t worry about it. I have to clean that bathroom anyway.”

Dick hooked his hands together and stretched his arms out above his head. Even now, after fighting off trigger-happy gangsters and killer robots for most of the night, he looked relaxed. Something about that worried Tiger, but he couldn’t put a finger on what it was.

“Night-night,” Dick said, as he started shuffling towards his bedroom, “Don’t pull your stitches in your sleep.”

“Goodnight,” Tiger replied.

Dick snapped the light off, and Tiger closed his eyes. He didn’t think he’d be able to fall asleep. When there were people around, he never could. Even if he knew that those people could never hurt him, would never even dream of it.

People were chaotic, and unpredictable. It was impossible to know what dangers they might bring by being foolish, brash, pig-headed. Being alone was always the safest option.

At least Tiger knew the extent of his own stupidity. The danger he brought himself was never a surprise.

Outside, a siren wailed, and the faint sounds of Dick Grayson preparing for bed trickled in from the other room. There was the shuffle of clothing, the sigh of a mattress. Then the light under the door disappeared, and the only thing left was the red and blue of police cars.

***

Unexpectedly, Dick woke up early. Not early for Tiger, who was always awake before sunrise in order to pray (and what a nightmare it had been, finding a proper place to pray in Dick’s apartment, where most of the floor was covered in dirty socks). But the clock on the microwave had barely ticked past six when Dick emerged from his bedroom.

Dick headed straight to the fridge and cracked it open. Tiger could see the line of his back above the kitchen island.

He stared into the fridge for a moment, clicking his tongue, before he pulled out some milk and dropped it onto the counter. When he turned, he caught Tiger’s eye and grinned.

“Morning, sunshine. Sleep well?”

“Fine,” Tiger lied, “I should get going soon.”

“You can eat breakfast first,” Dick said. “I’ve got plenty of food.”

The long minutes he’d just spent staring into the fridge revealed the inaccuracy of his words, but there was no point arguing with him. Back when they’d been partners, if Tiger went too long without eating, Dick would start fussing over him like a mother hen.

“Don’t you carry around protein bars?” he asked the first time, when they’d been so busy dodging Spyral agents in Prague that Tiger had gone almost 72 hours without a meal.

“Why would I have a protein bar?” Tiger asked. At that particular moment, the two of them were ducked down beneath a crumbling brick wall while an incredibly pissed off woman shot at them. Neither of them were sure if she was a Spyral agent or just mad.

“I don’t know. Isn’t that a spy thing? I always assumed spies would be super into protein bars.”

Tiger didn’t dignify this with a response. Instead, he leaned out above the wall and sent several shots in the woman’s direction. The conversation was put on hold after that. 

Twenty minutes later, they were picking their way back to the car when Dick shoved a shiny rectangular bar into Tiger’s hands. Luna Bar: Lemon Zest was scrawled across the packaging in curling white letters.

“Where were you keeping this?” Tiger asked.

“I have my ways,” Dick replied. “Now eat. You’re just skin and bones.”

Then he pinched Tiger’s hip, and Tiger smacked his hand away. 

Now, Tiger knew that the wisest option was to appease Dick when it came to food. He would eat the entirety of Dick’s fridge if it would get him to shut up. 

“Do you have anything that isn't past its expiration date?” Tiger asked.

“Plenty of things,” Dick said, although there was a note of uncertainty in his voice.

“I'll believe it when I see it.”

Tiger sat up, his body twinging with pain. Most of his injuries from last night had settled into bruises, and were throbbing dully in his arms, legs, and along his shoulders. The cut in his side was still spiking with pain, but that was easy to ignore. With some effort, he stood and made his way into the kitchen. Dick watched him the whole time, but pretended to be getting his breakfast ready.

“Want some Cocoa Puffs?” he asked, tugging two chipped bowls out of the cabinet. “Or, no. I'll do you one better.”

Tiger settled into a rickety seat next to the island, and Dick started poking around in his pantry. From what Tiger could see, Dick was in possession of a vast assortment of breakfast cereals, all of them brightly colored and loaded with sugar. It was a miracle that Dick could keep up a vigilante lifestyle, when he ate like that. His energy levels must have been erratic.

“Here,” Dick said finally, as he dropped a box in front of Tiger. It was a container of Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes, and a tiny cartoon version of Tony the Tiger stared up at him, giving a thumbs-up.

“How long have you been waiting to make this joke?” Tiger asked, and Dick actually had the audacity to giggle.

“They’re great, Tiger,” Dick said, and Tiger rolled his eyes.

“Pass me the cheerios,” he snapped. It took several tries before Dick handed him something that wasn't sugar-encrusted.

“How was I supposed to know you meant plain cheerios?” Dick asked. “There are so many different kinds!”

How indeed.

***

The next time Tiger found himself spending the night at Dick Grayson’s apartment, Dick was the one with an injury. An injury and a veritable army of assassins gunning for him.

“This apartment isn’t as secure as you think,” Tiger said, slamming the door and clicking the deadbolt shut. That’s all there was: a deadbolt and a flimsy lock. Tiger had seen more security on the door of abandoned shacks.

“It’s my sanctuary,” Dick said. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his arm- shoulder dislocated- was hanging limp against his side. Even with all that, a wild grin was split open across his face. You’d never be able to tell from his expression that he was injured at all.

“It’s a shitty sanctuary,” Tiger replied, “Now sit down.”

For once, Dick actually listened, and he settled onto the familiar lumpy couch with a groan.

“It’s great sanctuary,” Dick said. His voice was starting to get thinner, sounding like more of a pant. “I’ve never been killed in here.”

“Isn’t your father rich? Couldn’t he buy you a better hideout?” Tiger asked, heading towards the bathroom. The cabinet under the sink was just as much of a mess as it had been last time. He had to dig through a veritable mountain of toilet paper and dental floss before he found a sling. The sling was, of course, sticky with toothpaste. Tiger wasn’t sure where the toothpaste had come from, but at least a third of the cabinet was coated with it.

“He’s not my father,” Dick said. Even from a few rooms away, Tiger could hear the slight disdain in his voice.

“Didn’t he raise you most of your life?”

“That doesn’t make him my father. Did you think the people who raised you were your parents?”

Tiger paused in his attempts to wipe up the toothpaste and stared at the wall.

“I was raised by my mother,” he said.

“Oh,” said Dick.

“Who did you think raised me? Checkmate?”

“I sort of assumed you were sculpted from clay. Like Wonder Woman.”

Tiger was almost flattered by the comparison. 

When he reentered the living room, Dick looked even worse. His dark hair clung in sticky streaks to his forehead, and his skin was ashen. For a second, Tiger felt a stab of anxiety. If Dick Grayson died on his watch, he’d make an enemy of Batman and all of his associates. That was more trouble than Tiger had time for.

He stepped over and brushed Dick’s hair to the side. His skin was hot to the touch. When Dick opened his eyes, they were red, glazed over.

“You’re sick,” Tiger said. It was partially a question. Dick had seemed hale and healthy earlier, when Tiger had found him fending off hired killers. Somehow, Dick had managed to piss off every mob boss in Bludhaven, and they’d all decided to send assassins after him on the same night. Funny how things worked out.

It was just luck that Tiger had stumbled into him. He’d been supposed to meet up with one of his informants in a warehouse by the waterside, but he’d found the man dead instead. Evidently, he’d been killed by one of the women going after Dick. It seemed that tonight was the night for tying up loose ends, if you were a member of Bludhaven’s extensive organized crime network.

A series of shouts and curses led Tiger to the next warehouse over, where he found Dick knocking heads together. Half the killers were unconscious already, and the other half looked battered and miserable. But Dick was a graceful blur in the middle, as elegant and untouchable as he always was. It wasn’t until they’d finished off the last of the killers that Tiger even noticed that Dick was injured at all.

“I might be sick,” Dick admitted, “I thought the chills were just from the open window.”

“The windows are all closed.”

“Well, I know that _now_ ,” Dick said. It might have been Tiger’s imagination, but it seemed like Dick was leaning his head into Tiger’s hand. “The thermometer is in the medicine cabinet.”

“Mm-hmm,” Tiger said. He hoped the medicine cabinet was more organized than the one under the sink. “Lie down.”

Once again, Dick obeyed his commands, settling against the armrest gingerly. His injured arm was still tucked against his hip. Tiger had almost forgotten about it. He left the sling, still a bit sticky and smelling distinctly of mint, and went to retrieve a thermometer. On his way back, he grabbed a cracked _Gotham Zoo_ mug and filled it with cold water.

“Alright, up again,” he said, cupping his hand behind Dick’s neck. Dick leaned against Tiger heavily as he sat up. He was struggling to keep his eyes open. His eyelashes were tickling the inside of Tiger’s arm. “Drink this,” he said, holding out the mug. Dick’s swallowed the water with thick, hungry gulps.

“Ug.” Dick smacked his lips together. “Tastes bad.”

That was probably the illness, whatever the illness happened to be, but Tiger didn’t say so. Dick was getting too tired to talk. Miracle of miracles.

He went back to the fridge, in search of an ice pack. All he found was a package of hot dogs, and a bag of frozen blueberries. Didn’t Batman have an associate out there that could fill Dick Grayson’s refrigerator? Proper nutrition seemed like it should be essential to vigilantism. It certainly was to spy work.

Tiger grabbed the bag of blueberries and headed back to Dick, settling them against the injured shoulder. Dick’s eyes were closed again, and they barely fluttered when Tiger added the blueberries. He didn’t move at all when Tiger took his temperature.

101\. Not too bad, but Tiger didn’t like the way Dick’s eyes had glazed over. The illness had set in so quickly. Could one of the killers have dosed him with something?

Dick might not have noticed. He hadn’t even noticed the dislocated shoulder until the fighting was over, and he was grinning triumphantly at Tiger across a mountain of bodies.

“Good fight,” he’d said, shooting Tiger a thumbs-up, and then, “Ow, shit,” arm dropping heavily to his side.

They didn’t have time to examine the injury; they’d had to flee before the next wave. Now, back at the apartment, Dick hadn’t even taken off his domino mask, let alone the rest of his suit. He could be bleeding to death and Tiger wouldn’t know. The dark blood would only be absorbed into his black costume.

The rest of the blood would be mopped up by the couch. A piece of furniture so dark with stains that a new one wouldn’t even be noticeable.

This apartment was the stuff of Tiger’s nightmares.

“Alright,” Tiger said, finally leaning forward and running his fingers along the seam of Dick’s shirt, until he found the bottom half. At least Dick wasn’t awake to waggle his eyebrows.

He was heavy in Tiger’s hands as he removed the shirt, then the pants. After, Tiger examined him carefully, looking for blood. All he found were slowly purpling bruises. He grabbed worn, loose-fitting clothes from the hamper in the bedroom, and dressed Dick once again.

After a moment of hesitation, he folded up the Nightwing costume and placed it onto a chair.

Surely, that was all he owed Dick. No one would fault him for leaving now. Dick was an adult, who must have weathered thousands of flus by himself. There wasn’t much Tiger could do other than fetch water and heat up cans of cheap soup.

He made it as far as the window before he stopped. Glanced back at Dick. Dithered.

“Damn it,” Tiger said. 

***

Dick’s temperature finally dropped shortly after four o’clock. It was difficult to tell why Tiger kept checking it. He had never fussed over anyone the way he fussed over Dick that night. When he was young, and his sister was sick, his mother wouldn’t let him do anything for her. Illness wasn’t an excuse for dependency.

He’d seen her white and coughing blood, with a fever spiking to dangerous heights, but he was never able to do a thing. 

Tiger didn’t know if his mother ever fell ill. If she had, she’d certainly never told anyone about it.

What did Batman do, when his legion of little Robins got sick? If Dick Grayson’s personality was any indication, he probably coddled them terribly.

What would Dick be like, when he woke up? Sad and pathetic? Spoiled and bossy? He’d probably order Tiger to mop his brow and fetch him cough syrup from the ends of the earth. If Tiger had any sense, he’d leave before Dick woke up to torture him.

Of course, he didn’t leave.

***

“What do you mean you’ve never seen _Full House_?”

When Dick had finally woken up, it turned out that all of Tiger’s predictions were wrong. A sick Dick Grayson was exactly as vibrant and obnoxious as a well Dick Grayson. The only difference so far was that sick Dick Grayson had nothing stopping him from watching hours of saccharine TV shows.

“I don’t waste my time watching American television,” Tiger said. “For good reason, apparently.”

Dick shook his head at Tiger, clicking his tongue.

“You’ve been deprived of an important learning experience, buddy,” Dick said. At that point, he made another grab for the bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch by Tiger’s arm. Tiger swatted his hand away.

An hour ago, when Dick had mentioned that he was hungry, Tiger had gone to the considerable effort of heating a can of vegetable noodle soup on Dick’s defective stovetop. It took many tries, and considerable wrestling with the burners, but eventually he’d managed to present Dick a bowl of food that looked somewhat healthy and borderline edible.

Not surprisingly, Dick had insisted that the only thing his flu-ridden body would let him consume was more sugary cereal, which was neither healthy nor edible. What resulted was a battle over food more exhausting than any of their fights with Spyral ever had been. Dick always found new ways to make Tiger miserable.

“Eat your soup,” Tiger said, for what must have been the thirtieth time. The soup was cold by this point, sitting miserably in its bowl, but Tiger refused to warm it up again. It wasn’t his fault that Dick was being a child.

“Ug,” Dick said, collapsing back against the arm of the couch. “Alfie always lets me have cereal.”

Tiger had heard a lot about “Alfie” over the past few months. Enough to know that Dick Grayson was lying through his teeth.

“Eat your soup,” Tiger said again, and Dick obliged, dragging a spoonful into his mouth, mournful.

On the screen, a tiny blonde girl was crying. Her face was pink, scrunched up, and her acting was terrible. The director hadn’t even bothered to add a splash of water under her eyes.

“This is the episode where Stephanie discovers drugs,” Dick said, “Or is that DJ? I can never remember. Either way it’s very sad.”

“That child does drugs?” Tiger asked and Dick shook his head.

“She just gets offered some. They never actually do anything bad on this show.”

“How realistic.”

“Yep,” Dick said, “It’s just like my childhood.”

“Do these children also have a secret crime-fighting double life?”

“They could. Stephanie’s pretty scrappy.”

“Imagine if they lived in Gotham,” Tiger said, and Dick choked on his second bite of soup.

“Fuck,” he muttered, hacking into a hand, “Stephanie would get recruited by the Penguin.”

“Or become the new Penguin.”

“Their new house would be the Iceberg Lounge.”

“At least it would have enough room for the whole family.”

At that point, Dick was laughing so hard that he was slipping off the couch. The bowl of soup in his hands had already lost most of its contents. Noodles and bits of carrot were sticking to his shirt.

Before Dick slid off completely, Tiger grabbed his hip and pushed him back into a sitting position. Dick was too busy wiping away tears to notice.

“You and I have to write a TV show,” he said, palms over his watering eyes.

“In our extensive free time.”

“Yeah. We’ll meet up once a week to work on a pilot script.”

“I’m sure.”

Dick sighed, tilting his head to grin up at Tiger. There was a light in his eyes that Tiger normally hated to see. Most of the time, it meant that someone was going to start shooting at them. Or that Dick was going to knock Tiger out again.

But today, all it meant was that Dick was happy. His movements were loose, his expression was glowing, and he was gazing up at Tiger like Tiger was the reason for all of it. No one ever looked at him like that. Not Alia, or any of the lovers before her. Not even his own family. 

His mother had always looked at him with a careful, calculating expression, like she couldn’t tell if he was predator or prey. A threat to her or a threat to himself.

But then there was Dick Grayson, warm and horribly kind, and it terrified Tiger, the way Dick looked at him.

“We’re a good team, Tiger,” Dick said, and not long after, Tiger made excuses to leave.

***

“You have not lived until you’ve had Bludhaven pizza.”

It was a month later, and somehow Dick had trapped Tiger on a warehouse rooftop. Tiger wasn’t sure how Dick had found out that Tiger was in town, but the moment Tiger finished his assignment for the evening, he’d turned to see a familiar flash of black and blue barreling straight towards him. He’d planned to leave Bludhaven as soon as he’d met with his contacts, but now he was watching with trepidation as Dick Grayson cracked open a grease-stained cardboard box.

Inside, there was a gooey mess of cheese. It seemed only slightly more appetizing than Dick’s sugary cereal.

“You’ve had pizza, right?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t an experience Tiger was eager to repeat, but it didn’t seem like he had much choice.

“From where?”

“I don’t see why that matters,” Tiger said, and Dick groaned with his whole body.

“Tiger, Tiger, Tiger,” he said, covering his eyes with his hand. “That question proves what a pizza novice you are.”

“A what?” 

Dick shook his head. He was so expressive (read: overdramatic) tonight, Tiger was almost worried that he’d accidentally fling himself of the rooftop. Luckily, it seemed that Dick’s sense of balance was stronger than his ridiculousness.

“Pizza,” Dick said, picking up a piece and presenting it to Tiger, “is garbage if it isn’t authentic.”

A large dollop of grease was making its slow way down the slice. Tiger bit back all the disparaging remarks he could make about Dick’s culinary expertise.

“Authentic?” he said instead, and Dick nodded. His leg was swinging back and forth off the ledge, and the wind was whipping his hair into strange configurations. It was all Tiger could do not to laugh. 

There was always something so vibrant about Dick.

“Yes. Pizza needs to be from New York City, or New Jersey. Anywhere else and it’s crap. Crap, Tiger.”

“Ah,” Tiger said. Dick took a messy bite of his slice, wiping tomato sauce off his mouth with the back of his hand. Tiger wrinkled his nose. “I believe the pizza I ate was in D.C.”

“Crap!” Dick said, voice muffled by the mound of cheese and bread in his mouth. “Utter crap. You gotta try this, Tiger.”

Reluctantly, Tiger picked up a piece, careful not to get any grease onto his fingers.

“And Bludhaven has the best pizza?” Tiger said. He turned the slice in his hands, watching the cheese mash and run together. His stomach twisted.

“It’s unparalleled, Tiger,” Dick said, “Some people think Gotham’s is better, but they’re full of it.”

Suddenly, Tiger had a vivid mental image of Batman and Nightwing, punching criminals and shouting about sauce viscosity. From everything he knew of Batman, it was entirely possible.

“Come on,” Dick said, making a shooing motion with his free hand, “Try it.”

Resisting the urge to plug his nose, Tiger took a bite.

Perhaps, Dick wasn't completely wrong. 

“It’s edible,” Tiger said, after carefully chewing and swallowing. 

“Coming from you,” Dick said, as he placed a hand over his heart, “That’s practically a five star rating.”

Tiger didn't agree. He’d give this pizza a four star rating, at best. Which was, to be fair, still a significantly better rating than the one he would give the D.C. pizza.

“You’re so lucky you have me around to give you some culture.”

Tiger almost choked on his next bite.

“You’re about as cultured as an ant, Dick Grayson,” Tiger said, and Dick laughed, lying back along the ledge.

“Next time, I’m going to make you try Bludhaven bagels,” Dick said.

“I look forward to it,” Tiger said. It didn’t come out as sarcastically as he’d intended it.

***

Pride, Tiger thought, as he stood in front of Dick’s door, rainwater slowly soaking through his clothes, had always been one of his greatest weaknesses. Ever since he was a child, it had been easier for Tiger to suffer than to rely on the kindness of others. 

Once, years ago, while training with his sister, Tiger fractured a bone in his ankle. He still remembered the curious tilt of her head as he fell, gasping with pain. 

“What is it?” she asked. Her hand was already reaching towards his, ready to help him up the moment he needed it. “What's wrong?”

Her expression was so open, unbearably innocent. A sweet round face and large brown eyes. There was a bruise on her cheek that Tiger had given her, but Tiger still knew that if he asked, she’d take care of him without complaint. She’d let him lean on her until they found a medic, and she’d bring him his dinner every night until he could walk again. 

Even considering this made something twist in Tiger’s gut. So he pushed his sister’s hand away and told her to keep going. 

It was weeks before Tiger sought treatment for his ankle. The thing swelled up until he could barely fit it in his shoes anymore. It cycled through every possible shade of purple. But he didn't stop walking on it until it gave out under him. 

His mother was so angry, when she found out. By that point, he’d done more damage to his ankle than initial injury had. No one knew if it would ever heal fully again. 

His mother told him he’d be no use to her, if he couldn't walk. He'd be a burden. She wouldn't be able to keep him alive, not anymore.

It was only his luck that the ankle healed fully. Tiger was never sure what would have happened to him, if it hadn't. 

All things considered, asking Dick for help should have been easier than admitting weakness to his mother. His mother had always been terrifying and imperious, quick to remind her children of what a drain they were on her, how much she sacrificed for them. 

Dick Grayson, on the other hand, was a marshmallow. 

Still, some part of Tiger thought he would rather face his mother’s anger than Dick’s smugness any day. Tragically, Tiger didn't seem to have much of a choice, so he raised his fist and knocked on Dick’s door. 

There was still time to run. There were at least fifteen escape routes from this hallway alone, and Dick would never have to know he was there. Before Tiger could decide one way or another, the door opened and he was greeted by Dick’s terrible smile. 

“Well if it isn't my favorite superspy,” Dick said, a bit too loudly for a man who was supposed to have a secret identity, “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Tiger sighed, and pushed a drenched strand of hair away from his forehead. 

“I need a place to stay,” he said, and Dick’s grin grew several sizes. “Just for a few days. There are some people gunning for me, and I need to wait until my closest agents can get here.” 

“I could help you out,” Dick said, “We could go and knock some heads together. Like the old days.”

“It's not that simple.” 

If Dick had been any other agent, Tiger would have accepted his offer, no matter how much it hurt his pride. He’d rather be out there, finishing the job, than holed up in Dick’s tiny living room. But what Dick didn't know, what he’d hopefully never know, was that the moment Tiger’s people arrived they’d finish Tiger’s mission. An assassination of a rogue agent, who’d started working for one of the biggest mob bosses in town. 

Somehow, Tiger didn't think that Dick would want to help him with that. If Dick knew, Tiger was sure that this tentative alliance between them would be shattered. He’d learned a long time ago that there were certain things he couldn't tell Dick Grayson, no matter how much he trusted him. 

“If you say so,” Dick said, and stepped aside to let Tiger. “I'll get you some dry clothes.”

As Dick disappeared into his room and Tiger stripped off his sopping shirt, he wondered if the strange feeling in his gut was guilt.

He needed to lie to Dick, there was no question about that. If he’d told the truth, Dick would have thrown him out or insisted upon a nonviolent solution. So either Tiger would be dead, or some of his best agents would be sacrificed to Dick’s cause. Surely, Dick understood that there were some things Tiger couldn't tell him. He must have learned already that Tiger was a killer, would always be a killer, whether he was Dick’s friend or not. Dick would never be able to change him, just like he’d never be able to change Dick. That was the truce they’d come to, all those months ago. Wasn't it? Did Dick understand that, or did Tiger merely wish he did?

It was easier not to worry about it. 

“You sure you weren't followed?” Dick asked as he emerged from the bedroom and tossed Tiger a pair of pants and a shirt. “Because if some gangsters shoot up my place I’ll never get my security deposit back.”

“I'm sure,” Tiger replied. 

“Alright,” Dick said, clearing his throat, “You good with the couch, or do I have to give up my bed too?”

Somehow, Dick managed to make this sound like a genuine offer, behind a thin veneer of reluctance. 

“The couch is fine.” It would be hell on his back, but he’d slept for longer in worse places. He dropped the towel and slipped on the loose black cotton shirt Dick had given him. There was something written on the front in round white letters. 

“‘I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it,’” Tiger read, “‘William Shakespeare.’”

He raised an eyebrow at Dick, and Dick laughed. 

“That's my brother’s,” he said. “He left it here a few months back. I don't even know what play it’s from.” 

“ _As You Like It_ ,” Tiger replied. He sat down and began working his sodden boots off of his feet. 

“Big Shakespeare fan?” 

“You could say that.” 

“You’d like my brother.” 

“Which one?” 

“Jay,” Dick replied. He paused, thinking it over. “You’d like him for a lot of reasons. You’d probably like him more than me.”

“That wouldn't be hard,” Tiger said, and Dick laughed, disappearing into his bedroom again. 

“You love me,” he shouted, as Tiger peeled off his socks. “Admit it.” 

“I don’t like to lie if I don’t have to,” Tiger yelled back, stripping off the rest of his soaking clothes and pulling on Dick’s dry ones. 

“Now that’s a lie,” Dick said. When he reemerged he was wearing the bottom half of his Nightwing costume, and struggling into the shirt. 

“You’re going out?” Tiger asked, as Dick’s head appeared above the collar. Dick nodded, adjusting his gloves. 

“Time for patrol,” Dick said, “A little late for patrol actually. You’re lucky you caught me.” 

For some reason, when Tiger had imagined spending the next few days at Dick’s apartment, he hadn’t considered this. He couldn’t seem to picture Dick’s apartment without Dick in it, asleep in the next room or lounging on the couch. Talking over the TV with his mouth full. He knew, logically, that Dick had to leave sometimes. He must have a job in addition to being Nightwing, but Tiger had never bothered to find out what it was. Tonight, Dick was going to go out on patrol, and tomorrow he was going to go to work. Tiger was going to be stuck in Dick Grayson’s cramped, cluttered apartment, alone. For days. 

Now that Tiger had fully weighed his options, death by assassination was looking like a better and better idea. 

“Alright,” Tiger said, and Dick slipped back into his room. Tiger took a second to look around the living room. Empty, cereal encrusted bowls stacked next to the couch. Socks and sneakers scattered across the floor. That lumpy, stained couch that Tiger knew all too well. This place was the stuff of Tiger’s nightmares.

“Okay,” Dick said, reappearing in the living room, bearing a pile of blankets with his domino mask perched on top. “This is for you.”

He dropped the blankets and a pillow onto the couch, and put on his mask. 

“It’s not too late for you to take the bed you know,” Dick said. 

“I wouldn’t make you sleep on the couch.”

Dick shook his head, heading towards the window. Sliding it open, he shot a grin at Tiger over his shoulder. 

“We could always sleep together,” he said, and then, with an exaggerated wink, he dropped out of sight. 

Tiger hoped that, even without seeing it, Dick knew that he’d rolled his eyes. 

After that, there was nothing Tiger could do but wait. 

At first, he tried resting. He hadn’t slept in, what was it? Forty-eight hours? He knew from experience that he could last without sleep for much longer than that, but he shouldn’t push himself if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. And sleeping would be easier now that Dick was gone. 

Of course, sleeping would also be easier if lying on Dick’s couch didn’t feel like lying on top of a pile of rocks. A pile of rocks that had been soaking in medical waste. After absorbing so much of Dick’s blood, the thing should probably be burned. 

So resting was out. 

Desperate, Tiger turned on the television. Surely, there had to be something on that didn’t thoroughly disgust him. 

He was far too optimistic. 

Apparently, _Full House_ had set the bar for the rest of American television. He watched twenty minutes of a movie in which a pair of attractive young people lied to each other about everything under the sun and insisted they were in love. He changed the channel to find a television show about selfish twentysomethings with too much money for their own good, and somewhat concerning drinking problems. After that, he managed to find three more shows of a similar caliber, and eventually he settled on an infomercial for a product that cut fruit. As least the people in the commercials knew they were imbecilic. They were even attempting to fix their problems. 

All of this only managed to take up an hour, and Dick still hadn’t returned. Obviously, he’d be gone for most of the night, but when did he usually come back? How much sleep did Dick get, on average? If it was anything less than five hours, Tiger would have to reconsider their occasional partnership. That kind of sleep deprivation could lead to serious impairment. Dick would be putting them both at risk.

One hour, three minutes. 

Dick’s apartment really was a mess. There was clothing everywhere, and dirty dishes threatening to pour out of the sink. The coffee table was covered in candy wrappers and unopened envelopes. There was enough dust in the air and on the furniture to cause long lasting health problems. 

If Tiger was going to stay here, he might as well straighten things up a little. It would be a proper repayment to Dick, for the favor he was doing. 

Cleaning it was, then. Surely, that would take up a few hours. 

In two hours and thirteen minutes, Dick’s apartment was clean. Practically spotless. The disgusting, sweat-soaked clothes were in a hamper, the rings of dried soda had been sponged off the coffee table, and most of the Lucky Charms had been swept out from under the couch. It now looked like an apartment that a person could live in, although it didn’t exactly meet Tiger’s exacting standards. If he lived here, the floor would probably have to be soaked in bleach. And all the furniture would have to go. And the cabinets would need to be redone. The wood was warped.

Alright, so it seemed that there was no way on earth that Tiger would be able to live in this apartment. But at least someone would be able to, if Dick ever decided to move. If Dick didn’t undo all of Tiger’s fine handiwork, and make the place even worse than before. 

Either way, it wasn’t Tiger’s problem. It was past midnight, and he should probably sleep. 

He should have asked Dick what time he thought he’d be back. If he had a timeline, it’d be easier to plan out his night. 

He wasn’t worried about Dick. Dick had been a vigilante since he was child. Although Tiger would never admit it out loud, Dick had more practice with this sort of thing than Tiger did. Every night, he went out, and every morning he came back alive. Why was Tiger worrying? Because he was here, waiting around? There was no point to it. He never worried about Dick when he was away from Bludhaven. 

Not that he was worrying now. And if he was worrying, it was just because there was nothing else to do.

Tiger lay down on the couch, and propped his feet up on the armrest. 

It was now 12:05. 

This was officially torturous. 

Dick would be fine. He was probably galloping across rooftops, laughing like a lunatic. If Tiger were out there with him, he’d be losing his mind. He’d probably kill him before any criminals got a chance. 

If Batman and his ilk weren’t so insistent upon working alone, Tiger would be sleeping soundly right now. It only made sense for Nightwing to have a partner. Didn’t the Kryptonian Nightwing have a partner? Hadn’t Dick told him something like that? Leave it to Dick to hear a myth, keep the exciting name, and ignore the useful advice. 

Tiger sighed, and threw an arm over his eyes. Dick would be fine. He’d be fine. He wouldn’t be shot, or stabbed, or blown up, or eviscerated. He wouldn’t miss a step and break his neck, or get chained up and dropped to the bottom of the ocean. He wouldn’t die, and leave this city unprotected. Leave Tiger alone, fretting in his apartment. 

It wasn’t faith, or hope, or anything like that. It was probability. 

Probably.

***

In the end, against his will, Tiger fell asleep. He must have been more exhausted than he’d anticipated, because he woke up to the alarm on his phone blaring. Most days, he woke up at least ten minutes before. Still, he had time to take a shower and pray, which would be easier now that Dick’s apartment was neat. Perhaps his frenzy last night had had some use after all. 

Tiger sat up and stretched his arms behind his neck. The soft blue blanket Dick had lent him slipped down to his legs. Funny. He didn’t remember covering himself with the blanket before he fell asleep. Although, to be fair, he didn’t remember falling asleep. 

Standing, Tiger padded towards the bathroom, where his clothes were drying. He’d need to clean them at some point during this stay. At least, he’d need to ask Dick to clean them, lest he risk assassination in the laundry room. He was sure he had some spare change in one of his pockets. 

He shuffled back through the living room, and into the kitchen. Dick would be waking up any second now, which left Tiger a little time to make something for breakfast that wasn’t completely disgusting. Maybe a lot of time, depending on how late Dick slept. 

Tiger glanced over at the door of Dick’s bedroom. 

His stomach was dropping before he knew why. 

Dick’s door was open. Wide open, and there was no one in the bed. The sheets were crisp, straightened, smooth. 

No one had slept there last night. 

“Dick?” Tiger said, although he already knew there was no one to respond. He didn't like the frailty of his own voice, the sheer, scratching panic. 

He shouldn’t have fallen asleep. He shouldn’t have let Dick go out alone. 

It was too late for thinking like this. He needed information. He needed to strategize. He needed to help Dick, if he was still alive, and retrieve him, if he wasn’t. 

Stiffly, almost mechanically, Tiger grabbed the remote off the coffee table and flicked on the morning news. If they’d found Nightwing’s body somewhere, they’d report on it. Once they figured out that Nightwing was the adopted son of Bruce Wayne, they’d probably never stop reporting on it. It was easy to assume what they’d figure out next. 

This was Tiger’s fault. 

On the screen, a blonde woman was pointing to an animation of dark, broiling clouds, rushing down the East coast. 

They’d say something, if they’d found Dick. It wouldn’t be long until they’d show a picture of Dick’s broken body. 

Bloody and fragile, skin losing color. 

This was Tiger’s fault. This happened to everyone he got close to. 

It happened to everyone he loved. 

Tiger let the remote slip from his fingers, and covered his eyes with his shaking hands. 

He couldn’t be objective when he was like this. He couldn’t even leave this damn apartment. He needed to call someone else, Batman, Oracle. Fucking Superman. Anyone, anyone would be better than him. He needed to…

The door opened. 

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Dick said, as he kicked the door closed behind him. “Hungry?” 

He was alive. He was standing in front of Tiger, with a brown paper bag in his hands and a nasty, colorful bruise on his cheek. He was standing there, dark hair windswept, and he was alive, and Tiger had been stupid to think that he could have been anything else. Tiger was an idiot, and Dick was alive, and Tiger wanted to kiss him. 

He was in so much trouble. 

***

“I got six different types of cream cheese,” Dick said, “Also every kind of bagel that was in the deli. Have you had bagels before? I forgot to ask.” 

The counter that Tiger had cleaned so meticulously the night before was already a mess, covered in plastic containers, sesame seeds, and far too many napkins. It was complete and utter chaos, but Tiger couldn’t bring himself to care. 

“I can’t remember if I’ve had a bagel,” Tiger replied, and Dick shook his head. 

“That means no,” he said, “Or at least, it means you’ve never had a _good_ one.”

He kept talking after that, going on and on about bread dough and the Midwest and, inexplicably, lye. And he kept shuffling around, grabbing utensils and cutting the bagels and laughing at his own jokes. His cheek’s were pink from the cold outside, and Tiger wanted to touch him. He wanted to press him against the wall and hold him. 

Of all the people to fall in love with, Dick Grayson was probably the worst. 

“Alright, what do you want to try first?” Dick asked, “We’ve got plain, egg, garlic, poppy seed, etcetera. Anything catching your eye?”

“I don’t care,” Tiger said. As he watched, Dick took a chocolate chip bagel out of the bag, examined it carefully, and put it back. Then he took out a different bagel and did the exact same thing. Hadn’t Bruce Wayne taught him any manners?

Tiger was _in love_ with him. 

“We’ll start you with plain,” Dick said, finally placing a golden-brown bagel on his cutting board. “I don’t want to take any risks as this stage of the game.”

“Fine,” Tiger said. He didn’t even know if he was hungry. He was having a strange day. 

Dick sliced open the bagel, and then started agonizing over cream cheese. 

“I guess I should go with plain,” he said, mostly to himself, “But you’re going to be a chives guy, I can tell.” 

“If this is going to take all day, I’ll just go back to sleep.” 

“Patience, Tiger. Didn’t they teach you patience in spy school?”

“They taught me 20 different ways to kill you with that bread knife.”

 

“Only 20? Checkmate was slacking.”

Sighing, Tiger took a seat at the kitchen island. This was going to be his morning, then. This was probably going to be his whole life. The thought wasn’t as terrible as it should have been. 

“How many ways did Batman teach you?” 

“At least 30,” Dick said, slapping some cream cheese onto the bagel and slathering. 

“You’ll have to show me some of them.”

“Gladly.” Dick dropped the slices onto a paper plate and slid them across the counter to Tiger. “Now eat.” 

For a second, Tiger didn’t move. He just let himself look at Dick. 

Was this what he wanted to do for the rest of his life? Did he want to be with Dick Grayson, in this crappy apartment, with its crappy furniture, and bagels and pizza, and Dick, Dick in all his terrible glory? Was that what he wanted? Was that what Tiger had become?

He didn’t know. All he knew was that he shouldn’t have come to stay here, and it was too late to leave. 

“Alright,” he said. 

***

“Did you clean my apartment, you weirdo?”

“American television is boring,” Tiger said, and then he gestured at the screen with his bagel. “This child has learned the dangers of lying six separate times today.” 

“Don’t bash _Boy Meets World_.”

“Why won’t this child stop lying?” Tiger asked, pointedly not listening to Dick. “It’s almost pathological.” 

“He’s just a boy,” Dick said, “Meeting the world for the first time.”

“Ug.”

On the screen, the little curly haired boy and his girlfriend with the strange name were having a tearful break-up. Everyone in the audience kept sighing dramatically. If this continued on for much longer, Tiger was going to get a headache. 

“I need another bagel,” he said, getting to his feet, and Dick laughed a little, shaking his head. 

“That's your third bagel, Tiger,” he said, “I think you're developing an addiction.”

“I haven't eaten in four days,” Tiger snapped back, which was a lie, but Dick didn't need to know that. 

“You're addicted to bagels. I've created a monster.”

“Whatever,” Tiger said, grabbing the bread knife. 

He wasn't _addicted_ to bagels. He liked them, that was all. 

And Dick had been right. He did like the cream cheese with chives. Which meant that he’d stuck solely to the veggie cream cheese all morning. 

A person’s food preferences was a dangerous piece of information to have. Dick could poison him, or worse: he could be smug about it. 

“How are you going to eat all of this?” Tiger asked, tapping one of the containers of cream cheese with his knife. There must have been 15 scattered around the kitchen.

“Pass them out to the neighbors, probably,” Dick said. On the TV, the audience was laughing uproariously at something, and Dick cracked a smile. “Maybe I'll have a bagel party.”

“Hm.”

“Want me to invite you?” 

“No.”

“Sure you don't,” Dick said. Tiger grabbed his plate and headed back towards the couch. “You won't be able to stay away, addict.”

Tiger took a bite and didn't respond, pretending to be interested in the show. Now, the curly-haired boy was running for student body president. Did anyone ever actually go to class at American public school? 

“Even if I don't throw a party, you’ll come back,” Dick said, shoving his sock-covered toes into Tiger’s thigh. “Because you love me.”

“I don't even like you,” Tiger said, a tired, familiar routine. 

“You love me,” Dick repeated, and something in Tiger felt warm. 

The next few days passed much the same way. Dick went to work, teaching acrobatics at a gym, bartending at a cop bar some nights, and at night he went on patrol. In the mornings he forced Tiger to try new, disgusting foods, and in the evenings Tiger sometimes convinced Dick to let him make dinner. It was comfortable. It was almost cozy. If Tiger hadn't already known that it was temporary, he would have suspected someone of setting this all up, of luring them into a trap. But nothing happened. No one attacked them, and Dick came home every day, sometimes a little worse for wear but always, always alive. 

After the first night, Dick must have realized that Tiger was in danger of losing his mind from boredom, so he started setting him up with research projects. Tracking smuggling shipments and finding patterns in newspaper articles. One night, Dick was trying to bust up an trafficking ring. The next, he was tracing a murderer on the run with stolen LexCorp tech. Tiger read the biographies of the engineers in charge of the tech, an experimental super-suit, and poured over schematics, making psychological profiles and looking for motive. It was boring grunt work, and Tiger felt a little like a child left with a homeschool assignment, but it was something to do. And Dick needed the help, even if he could do most of this himself. He worked a little bit faster, with Tiger. Maybe that would save a couple of lives. Or at least keep Dick from receiving any more black eyes. 

He put the patterns together and he fed Dick information through his earpiece. When Dick came home battered at the end of the night, Tiger applied the ice packs, mopped up the blood, tied up the wounds. 

The last night Tiger stayed in the apartment, Dick was out late. Later than usual. Most of the time, he crawled back in through the window around three, hours before the sun came up. Then he’d sleep until he had to work in the afternoon. 

That day, he climbed inside just as the sky was starting to lighten. The dim glow through the window illuminated his tired frame: shoulders slumped, head hanging. He was moving slow, limping slightly, but he didn't seem injured. Or at least, he didn't seem more injured than he normally was. But something about him made Tiger stand up, walk over, push a hand under his chin. 

“What is it?” he asked, and Dick knocked his arm away. 

“Nothing.” 

When he wanted to be, Dick could be a good liar. He’d fooled Tiger more than once. But he wasn’t fooling anyone tonight. 

Tiger didn’t move, and Dick didn’t try to force him out of the way. 

“You can tell me,” Tiger said, although he wasn’t sure why. Whatever was plaguing Dick, whatever was making him move like every part of him was bruised, wasn’t any of Tiger’s business. Not really. Even if Dick did tell him, what could Tiger do about it? He’d never exactly been one for comfort, and it was far too late for him to learn now, tonight, with Dick looking at him like he’d seen the muddiest, most vile trenches of humanity. 

Slowly, Dick tilted his head. 

“Can I?” he asked, and Tiger didn’t know the answer. They stared at each other. After a moment of silence, Dick looked away. “I need to get some sleep.” 

Without saying another word, Tiger stepped aside, and Dick disappeared into his bedroom. Tiger would be gone before Dick woke up. Maybe he should have told him that, but it was too late now. 

***

Once Tiger’s agents arrived, the assassination went off without a hitch. Tiger wasn't even there to oversee it. By that point he was halfway to Madrid, and the only indication he got that the job was finished was a one word message from his subordinates. 

“Done,” the message read. Neat and simple. He didn't know how they’d done it, or if there’d been any complications, but since becoming Patron he’d had to learn how to delegate, to have faith that others could do a job as well as he could. 

Still, as he leaned back in his seat and watched the clouds skimming past the window, he couldn't ignore a faint tinge of… something. Anxiety, maybe. Or guilt. 

Of all the emotions that accompanied a completed assassination, guilt was the most rare. He worried that he’d done a sloppy job, or someone else had. He got angry at his subordinates, at the mark, at the other side, or at the weather. But guilt? He hadn't felt guilty since Alia. And before her, it had been years, almost decades. 

It wasn't a reasonable feeling. He hadn't known the man, and it needed to be done. His presence was endangering everyone in Spyral. 

Tiger was a killer. It was his job. There was nothing else to it. 

***

As luck would have it, it was barely two weeks before Tiger needed to return to Bludhaven. This time, there were rumors of a dangerous weapon being smuggled into Bludhaven, and no one knew quite what it was or who had it. In the hopes of neutralizing the situation early, he’d spread agents across the city, staking out the usual suspects. After several days with no information, he'd had no choice but to look himself. 

He didn't expect to see Dick. He didn't even know if he wanted to. 

Of course, none of that mattered. Because Dick wanted to see him, and once Dick had decided something, there wasn't much in the world that could stop him. 

He found Tiger at midnight, in the alley behind Bludhaven’s seediest nightclub. The place was chaotic, with music so loud it set the whole street vibrating. Tiger was camped in the alley, alongside empty liquor bottles, lemon peels, and the occasional drunken passerby. 

When Dick dropped down from the fire escape, for a second Tiger thought he was just a shadow, shifting in the flashing neon light. 

Then he stepped forward, and Tiger caught a slash of blue. 

“Nightwing,” he said. The chances of Dick working the same case were low, but when had that ever mattered before? It seemed that fate was going to keep throwing them together. 

“Tiger,” Dick replied. His face was still covered in darkness, but there was something off about his tone. Something formal, emotionless. Tiger didn't think he’d ever talked to Dick when he wasn’t barely fighting back laughter. “I need to ask you something.”

Tiger threw a glance at the door of the club. It would be a few hours yet. He had time. 

“Ask, then,” he said, and finally Dick stepped forward. The golden light of the streetlamps fell over his eyes, and Tiger found himself drawing a breath. 

His expression was cold. 

This wasn't Dick Grayson. This was Batman’s protege. This was the man that went out at night to beat Bludhaven into submission. It wasn't the one that Tiger knew. 

“Was this you?” Dick asked. In his hands was a newspaper, twisted slightly with water damage. 

Aside from the headline, the words were illegible. But the picture splashed across the front page was clear enough. 

It was Tiger’s rogue agent, dead in his living room. The pale white of the body glowed. 

He looked at Dick, and he knew that it would be easy to lie. Lie, and make Dick believe him. Then Dick would stop watching him with that wary, dangerous look in his eyes, like Tiger was refuse, washed up on one of Bludhaven’s beaches. Not Dick’s friend anymore, just something to clean up. 

He could have lied, but for some reason, he didn't want to. 

“Yes,” he said, “It was me.”

“You _bastard_ ,” Dick said, and Tiger thought, in another life, he might have gotten angry. Behind him, a car drove past, and the red glow of the taillights turned Dick’s eyes to ruby. His face was so clear suddenly, chiseled out of the darkness, and all Tiger found himself feeling was guilt. “I trusted you.”

“You know this is my job,” Tiger said, but the words felt misshapen in his mouth, like teeth falling out. 

No one had trusted him in years. He’d forgotten what it felt like. 

“And you know I don't get involved in this,” Dick said. “I _helped_ you. I let you stay with me. You made me a goddamn accessory to murder, Tiger.”

“You didn't know,” Tiger said.

When they were young, his sister used to have nightmares all the time. She could barely close her eyes without feeling herself being hunted, being tortured. Something strong, with horrible fangs, eating her piece by piece. She became so exhausted, with heavy dark marks under her eyes. She’d move slowly during training, but no one ever took pity on her. 

Their mother told him that his sister would solve the problem by herself. Everyone had nightmares. Only the weakest people let themselves be terrorized. He listened to her, until his sister slipped up during training. Until another child almost killed her. 

He found her with her throat slit. The blood haloing out around her was as dark as her hair. She was still alive, but so pale, so still. 

It took her weeks to recover, and he never left her side. At night, he’d sit by her bedside and tell her stories until her eyes fluttered shut. Stories about her, as a powerful warrior, cutting down her enemies and protecting the helpless. Then he’d watch her, waiting for the signs of a nightmare. Twitching hands or a stifled cry. But they never came. 

“I'm not afraid when you’re here,” she told him one morning, when the wound on her neck had faded to a dull brown. She used to say that it looked like a river, cutting across the map of her skin. “You'll protect me.”

His sister had been the last person who trusted him. His sister, and now Dick. He hadn't realized that he’d missed it, someone having faith in him. He hadn't realized that he’d wanted it at all. 

“It doesn't matter,” Dick said. “I could have found out. I could have found out what you were doing, and I could have stopped you. You made me an _accessory_ , Tiger.” 

“What was I supposed to do?”

“There were about a million things you could have done,” Dick said, stepping forward, into Tiger’s space, pressing a finger into his chest. His voice was low, thick and growling. “Starting with not fucking using me.” 

“You know this is my job, you know that…”

“And you know that I wouldn't have let you do this! That man’s blood is on my hands now, Tiger. And all because you…”

“You didn't ask,” Tiger snapped back, pushing Dick backwards. Dick’s fists were clenched by his side, turning whiter and whiter. “You never ask me what I'm doing, or why I'm here. You don't want to know. So I don't tell you.”

“Oh, so this is my fault? For trusting you?”

The question made Tiger falter. It hurt, in a distant way, the way a hand must have hurt after it had been chopped off. Old pain, years past, but never quite healed. 

“Yes,” he said, even though he wanted to apologize. To beg forgiveness. “You know what I am.”

Dick stepped forward again. His eyes were bright, cracks in the concrete of the night. 

“What are you?” he asked, and Tiger’s mouth went dry. 

What was he? What was he anymore? 

“I'm a killer, Nightwing,” he said, “I always will be.”

Finally, Dick stepped back. The air was cold where he'd left it. 

“Good to know,” he said, and then he slipped away. 

It was always going to end this way. Tiger shouldn't have been surprised. 

***

After that, there was no reason for Tiger to go back to Bludhaven. There’d barely been a reason before that. Curing Bludhaven might have been Dick’s obsession, but the city was insignificant in the grand scheme of things. On the rare occasion when it became significant, Tiger had a whole organization of people he could send in his stead. He’d never have to spend another second on those garbage-littered streets, breathing air that smelled like polluted seawater and bird dung. He’d never have to see Dick, deal with his bad jokes and his blind faith. 

It was better this way. 

He missed him, still. That was to be expected, even if he didn't like it. 

He thought about him too often. He’d talk to him in his head. Most of their real conversations had irritated Tiger to no end, but now he found himself replaying them over and over. It was idiotic, lovesick nonsense, and he couldn't wait until it was over. One of these days, he’d stop thinking about Dick Grayson. One of these days, he’d forget about him entirely. Dick was never going to be anything more than an aberration. 

Tiger had almost convinced himself of this when word got in that one of his best agents had washed up dead on Bludhaven’s shoreline, looking like he’d aged about fifty years in less than a week and showing signs of a struggle. When Spyral started investigating, they discovered that their agent wasn't the first murder victim showing these symptoms. Others like him had been found across the country, and all of their murders remained unsolved. Before Spyral, no one had had the resources to notice the connection between the cases. They were too spread out, and random. Nothing connected the victims before their deaths; neither race or job nor hair color. It was the work of a serial killer, but one without an obvious type. 

If this killer hadn't gone after one of their agents, it wouldn't have been Spyral’s problem. But they had, and Tiger wasn't in the happen of letting his people get killed without doing something about it. And they needed to act fast. This killer never stayed in one place long. 

Tiger didn't need to be the one to deal with this. He could delegate. It wasn't easy for him, but he could. His people were the best. He’d made sure of it, the moment he became Patron. 

He tried not to worry about Dick, and the killer prowling through Bludhaven’s streets. Dick was an expert at taking down people with the most dangerous weapons and abilities. And even if he couldn't fight this particular killer, there was no reason why they would go after him. The chances of Dick fitting this killer’s type were negligible at best. 

Tiger didn't need to worry about this. After he assigned someone to investigate, he could forget about it entirely. 

The morning after his agent washed up, he was on a plane to Bludhaven. 

***

It took less than twelve hours for Dick to find him. 

He'd rented out a room in a motel, a room that smelled like week-old fish filet and had cigarette burns on all the furniture. It was overpriced because of its proximity to the beach, and securing it was damn near impossible, but there was more privacy there than there would have been at a nicer place. Plus, it was much easier for Tiger to stay up-to-date with the latest news from Bludhaven’s criminal underbelly, seeing as most of Bludhaven’s two-bit thieves and grifters slept in the rooms next to him. His neighbor across the hall, a displaced lackey of the Penguin’s, had agreed to be his informant for a couple of bucks an hour. The criminals in town wanted this killer off the streets as much as he did. Serial murder tended to be bad for business. 

Of course, that didn't mean that anyone actually knew anything. After a day spent combing through the evidence, re-examining the body, questioning anyone who was anyone, Tiger was still at square one. People were turning up dead, looking like the years of their life had been drained away, and no one had a damn idea who was doing it. Or why. All Tiger had to show for his work were boardwalk splinters in his hands and sand-filled shoes.

Then there was a knock on the door, and he found Dick Grayson, in all his glory. He wasn't wearing the Nightwing costume, but even in a pair of jeans and a ratty Hudson University sweatshirt, it was obvious he didn't belong in this place. There was something inherently wholesome about him. Perhaps it was the big blue eyes. 

Right now, those big blue eyes were glaring at Tiger. 

“You owe me a favor,” Dick said, and no matter how much he wanted to, Tiger couldn’t argue with that. 

“What do you need?” he asked, “I’m not free for long. I’ve got a killer on the loose.” 

At that, Dick seemed to deflate. The anger in his expression faded into something like surprise, like he’d been expecting Tiger to turn him down entirely. It seemed that after all this time, Dick still didn’t understand a fundamental fact about Tiger: he repaid his debts. 

“The killer is why I’m here,” Dick said, “We’re going after the same guy.” 

“How do you know that?” Tiger asked. He stepped aside and Dick walked into the room, careful not to touch him. 

“Nightwing knows everything,” Dick replied. A few weeks ago, he would have laughed as he said this, smiling over his shoulder at Tiger. But now, there was no emotion in his voice. “I keep an eye on what goes on in my city.”

He was starting to sound like Batman. 

“So you know about the Spyral agent?” Tiger asked. Delicately, Dick sat on the bed, and bounced up and down a few times, testing it. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation, or Tiger. But Tiger knew what Dick was like when he was truly comfortable. This careful nonchalance was all an act. In reality, he was watching Tiger’s every move.

“The guy on the beach? I wasn’t sure he was Spyral, but I knew he was something.” 

“Something,” Tiger repeated, unimpressed.

“Yeah,” Dick said. He stood and started inspecting the notes Tiger had stuck to the wall. Keeping a paper copy of his information was old-fashioned, but Tiger found it easier to think through a problem when he could touch it, move it, lay it out. 

Dick tapped a finger against the pin holding up the agent’s picture. 

“Once I started to look into him, I realized he didn’t have a record. No name, no fingerprints, nothing. I figured he was part of some agency. CIA, Spyral, you name it. It wasn’t that important anyway.”

Even though Dick was technically right, Tiger felt himself bristle.

“What _is_ important then?” he asked. Dick ignored the question. 

“There was a woman killed a week back,” he said, tugging a few wrinkled pieces of paper out of his sweatshirt pocket. “Mary Pryor. I met her the day before she died.” 

His voice didn’t betray any emotion, but Tiger knew how much Dick hated people dying on his watch. Even people he had no reason to be watching. 

“She was young, just moved into the city. She was engaged, but when they found her body, there was no ring.” 

Dick dislodged a picture from his pile of papers, and pinned it up next to the agent’s photo. In it, a pretty redhead smiled up at the camera, a spray of sunflowers arranged behind her. She was young. There was still a soft roundness to her features. 

“So I tracked the ring down to a pawnshop on the boardwalk,” Dick said, “I thought the killer might have dumped it, but it turns out it had been sold by some junkie who’d gone dumpster diving. Or, I guess, dump diving.” 

Three more photos appeared next to the first two: an old woman, a little boy, and a man in an army uniform. 

“Turns out the killer’s been dropping bodies in the Bludhaven junkyard. Leaving them there like they’re nothing.” 

If Dick were anyone else, Tiger would think he was too close to this case. What was happening to these people was awful, but emotions interfered with the investigation. They made people impulsive, messy, prone to stupid mistakes. But there was nothing Tiger could do about Dick’s emotionalism. When they were partners, he’d tried, but all his efforts were fruitless. And now, they weren’t even friends. Tiger was about the last person Dick would listen to.

Dick would have his emotions. He’d keep getting too involved, and one of these days it was going to get him killed. It wouldn’t be Tiger’s fault, when it happened. 

“I’ve been staking out the place,” Dick said, forcing Tiger to refocus on the task at hand, “But the killer hasn’t shown up.”

The next item he stuck to the board was a map of Bludhaven. Carefully, he pinned the spot where the junkyard must have been. Then, he added another pin to where Mary Pryor had been found. 

“I’ve narrowed the killer’s location down to this quarter of the city. All the victims lived or worked around here.” Another spattering of pins. “I don’t think the killer’s too worried about their location being narrowed down. They never stay in one city long.” 

Dick stepped back, and Tiger leaned in to examine the new evidence. Four new victims, still with no connection between them. And even with the killer’s location narrowed down, a quarter of the city was still a huge amount of people. They couldn’t exactly go knocking on every door until they found someone who seemed like a murderer. At that rate, they’d be arresting most of Bludhaven. 

“I think we should split up,” Dick said, “I’ve got a couple more leads to chase down, but I don’t want to leave the dump. So one of us can continue the stakeout, and the other can keep investigating. Sound good?” 

Tiger doubted he had much choice in the matter. Still, with Dick’s help, he was much farther along in the investigation than he had been a day before. 

“I’ll watch the junkyard,” Tiger said. “We can switch tomorrow night if you don’t find anything.” 

“Fine with me,” Dick said, and stepped away from Tiger. 

Tiger’s first night in the junkyard was uneventful. From his spot across the street, in a rusty rental car, he could see everything that happened there, and what happened was a whole lot of nothing. He watched seagulls feasting on rotten fruit, stray cats attempting to claw each other’s eyes out, and several different drug deals. No one showed up to dump a body. No one even acted like eventually dumping a body was on their to-do list. 

He kept an ear piece in, to tell Nightwing if he found anything, and vice versa. The few other times they’d done that, Dick had chattered incessantly all night, driving Tiger to the brink of insanity. Now, he was completely silent, not even humming or breathing especially loudly. Most likely, Dick had turned his side on mute. 

If Tiger had known getting Dick royally pissed off would shut him up, he would have done it ages ago. Or at least, he would have thought about it. In practice, it seemed that Tiger wasn’t as fond of a quiet Dick Grayson as he thought he would be. He missed the steady stream of bad jokes and worse nicknames. Time passed more slowly without them. 

He was becoming so horribly sentimental. 

Half past four, Tiger started up the car and headed back to the motel. He and Dick had agreed to make his room their base of operations for the rest of the case. At least it meant he’d never have to set foot in Dick’s apartment again.

As Tiger was thinking this, he rounded the corner of the hallway and came up short. Dick was sitting in front of his door, head buried in his arms. He was dressed as Dick again, not Nightwing, but the collar of the suit was poking out above his sweatshirt. 

“Dick?” Tiger said, and Dick looked up at him. His expression was fractured, caught somewhere between anger and grief. 

“I have a lead,” he said, bitterly, his voice breaking. 

***

Once inside, Dick walked straight for the papers on the wall and started rearranging them. Ripping off sections, adding new pins, and sticking up a new picture that Tiger couldn’t make out. He headed into the kitchenette, and started pouring water into the tiny, dented teapot that had come with the room. There was a stovetop, a hotplate really, and Tiger dropped the pot onto it, flicking on the flame. 

“A little boy in my gymnastics class,” Dick began, seemingly out of nowhere. “His dad got into trouble with the law awhile back.”

Tiger crossed his arms and leaned back against the countertop. He didn’t know where Dick was going this, but he trusted Dick to know what he was doing. If it got that ruined look out of his eye, he could talk about his gymnastics class for hours. He could talk about it for days. 

“His dad was a good guy, always trying his best.” Dick paused, swallowed harshly, recomposed himself. “I got him a job with Wayne Enterprises. He had three kids to support, and no one was helping him.” 

Dick clenched his fist, and pressed his white knuckles into the wall, under the new picture. He wasn’t even looking at Tiger. 

“Our killer. Killers. They selected the kid in my gymnastics class as their next victim.” 

“Shit,” Tiger said, almost without thinking. 

“They showed up at his house, and he hid in a crawlspace. Apparently they’d been following him for awhile, and he was freaked. So he hid, and the rest of the family didn’t. They killed them. Tiger. The whole family. And they didn’t even know if the kid was there. They did it for _fun_.”

 

There was so much Tiger could say to this, and he knew that none of it was right. Nothing he could say, no comfort he could offer, would make Dick stop thinking this was his fault. 

“Killers?” he asked, because if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was keep working. 

“There were two of them,” Dick said, “A man and a woman. Metas. The kid heard them talking. He’s at the police station until his aunt can come pick him up, but I heard some guys at the bar talking about it.”

“Do we know what their abilities are?” Tiger asked. 

“The woman’s has something to do with energy,” Dick said, “She feeds off people’s energy. It’s what kills them.”

“And what ages them,” Tiger said, and Dick nodded.

“Presumably. I don’t know about the man.” 

The teapot started whistling, and Tiger turned towards it. He pulled out two paper cups, and a box of cheap English breakfast tea. There was the shuffle of paper behind him as he poured the water into the cups. 

“We have to get to the crime scene,” Dick said, “See if there’s anything the cops missed.” 

“Alright,” Tiger said. He stepped forward and pressed one of the cups into Dick’s hands. “Did you eat yet today?”

The question seemed to surprise Dick, and he gave Tiger a sharp look. 

“I’m fine,” he said, and Tiger chose not to push the matter. He knew for a fact that Dick had eaten last night, as he’d devoured a sandwich while they were getting their information together. Oil and vinegar had gotten all over Tiger’s pillow. 

Dick would be fine without food, and sleep, for at least a day. It wouldn’t start impairing his functioning until some time tomorrow. Tiger wasn’t looking forward to the argument they’d have to have the next morning. 

“When do you want to check out the crime scene?” he asked. 

“Everybody should clear out by this afternoon,” Dick replied, “Tonight?” 

“You want me to come with you?” 

“Why not?” Dick asked, lip curling ever so slightly, “It’s not like they’ll have a new body to dump.” 

“Mm-hmm,” Tiger said, taking a sip of his tea. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dick do the same. 

Sometime around eight, Dick slipped out. Whether he wanted to eat, or change, or chase down more leads, he didn’t say. At that point, there was nothing left for Tiger to do but wait for night to come. That was something they’d never told him at Spyral, or Checkmate. Something even his mother had never bothered to mention. Most of this work was waiting, even when it made you feel completely powerless.

You were. That was the trick. You were powerless. 

The rest of the day was surprisingly routine. He took a shower, finally getting the stench of junkyard off his skin. He brushed his teeth and he prayed and he checked in on his Spyral agents, scattered across the world. He even managed to sleep for a couple of hours. Then, it was seven in the evening, and Nightwing was perched outside his window. 

“We’re taking your car,” he said, and he was gone again. 

Half an hour later, they were parking a block away from the crime scene. Dick opened the door and slipped up the fire escape of the nearest building, disappearing into the dark sky. Zipping his jacket closed, Tiger followed on foot, taking alleyways and side roads until he found the house plastered with yellow tape. There was one cop on guard, in a car across the street. The man was nodding to sleep against his steering wheel. 

It was easy enough for Tiger to shimmy open the back window, and climb inside. 

The first room he entered was a kitchen, or at least, it used to be. The place had been ripped to pieces. There was broken glass on the floor, frying pans and plastic cups ripped from the cabinets. The fridge had been ripped open, and steady supply of water was leaking from it, mixing with the blood on the floor.

There was so much blood on the floor. There was so much blood everywhere. Everything in the house seemed to be coated in a fine layer of blood. 

This wasn’t the worst Tiger had seen, but it wasn’t the best either. He felt sick. 

From upstairs, Tiger could hear faint footsteps. Dick would search the upstairs rooms, then, and he’d look through the bottom floor. 

The next few rooms were much like the first. Bloody and wrecked. It was impossible to tell where the bodies had been, or where the killing had happened. Everything was the same grotesque monotony over and over. 

Tiger stopped in front of a shattered picture frame. Three, blood-spattered little boys grinned up at him, all with dark, curly hair. Absently, Tiger found himself wondering which of them was Dick’s student. What was he like, that Dick worried over him so much? Did he remind Dick of himself at that age?

There was a creak in the floorboards behind him, and Tiger turned to see Nightwing’s dark outline in the doorway. 

“Find anything?” he whispered. 

“No,” Tiger replied, “But I’m not finished going through this room yet.”

He wasn’t even sure what they were looking for. What could they find without any tools at their disposal?

There was a crunching of glass and Dick swearing softly behind him. 

“I love wrecking evidence,” he hissed, stepping into Tiger’s view, and Tiger almost laughed. When he looked over, he thought he caught a flash of a smile. “Hold on, what’s this?”

Dick disappeared behind the couch, and Tiger walked towards him. 

“What do you see?” he asked, peering over the ripped couch back. Dick shrugged, and held something shiny up in one gloved hand. 

“A key,” he said, looking rueful. “Probably a house key.” 

“What’s that on the keychain?” Tiger asked. Dick grabbed the little plastic square hooked to the key and flipped it over. Tiger shone his flashlight onto it. In the middle of the square was a gold-embossed number 17. 

“Hotel key,” Dick said, a question in his voice. A question Tiger already knew the answer to. 

“Motel key,” he said, pulling a matching key out of his pocket, “My motel.” 

***

“How did we miss this?” Dick asked, the moment he reappeared in Tiger’s window. Tiger glanced over at him, and returned to loading his gun. “They were right here the whole time.”

“There was no way to know,” Tiger said, sliding his gun into its holster. Even as he said the words, he felt the lie in them. He was Patron, he’d been trained for this. He’d been here for _days_. Why hadn't he paid attention? 

“And why did they drop their key?” Dick asked. He tucked his escrima sticks under his arm, and ran his free hand through his hair. “Why would they be that careless?”

“They aren’t worried about being caught,” Tiger answered. He and Dick locked eyes. 

“Why not?” Dick asked. 

“They’re confident,” Tiger said, “Let’s hope they’re overconfident.” 

“Do you have a power dampener?” Dick asked, and Tiger nodded, slipping two pairs of handcuffs out of his bag, and into his pocket. “Alright. You ready?”

Tiger wanted to say yes, but he couldn’t help the sudden twist of anxiety in his chest. They didn’t know enough about these killers. They weren’t prepared, they didn’t have back-up. It was idiotic, to go in guns blazing, but they didn’t have a choice. If they waited too long, the killers would be picking up and heading to a new city. Or choosing a new victim. 

“Be careful,” Tiger said, even though he felt like the words would reveal too much. For a moment, Dick just looked at him. 

“You too,” he said, finally. Tiger might have been imagining it, but there seemed to be something gentle in his tone. 

The two of them headed downstairs. Dick had slipped a jacket over the signature blue of his Nightwing costume, and stuffed his domino mask into a pocket. Tiger could barely see the faint line of the escrima sticks, pressed against his back. 

Room 17 was at the end of the hallway, and the whole first floor seemed to be deserted. A faint haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air, and Dick read off the room numbers under his breath. 

“You should go around back,” Tiger muttered, “And break in through the window.” 

“I will when we find them,” Dick replied, as they passed room 19. 

They stopped a few doors from the room, and Tiger reached for his gun, flicking open the holster. His hand stilled when the door creaked open. Quickly he turned toward Dick, hiding his weapon against the wall. 

Immediately, Dick stepped forward, draping an arm across Tiger’s shoulder and leaning towards his ear, as if to whisper something. He smelled like sweat and plastic, and his dark hair brushed softly against Tiger’s cheek. For a moment, Tiger forgot what they were doing, and he had to fight the urge to pull Dick closer. 

“They went into the pool,” Dick said, and Tiger let go of him. “You follow them in. I’ll go around back.”

“Understood,” Tiger said. With one last glance toward the door of the pool, Dick headed off down the hallway. It was all Tiger could do not to follow him out. 

But that would be idiotic, and so Tiger straightened his shirt, heading towards the pool. On the way, he plucked up a towel, slinging it over his shoulders, carefully covering his gun. 

The room was bright, sending shining blue light in waves down the hallway. He could hear something that sounded like an argument, trickling through the glass door. The fighting stopped the moment he stepped inside, and he looked over to see a man and woman, both watching him. 

The man was tall, lithe, with tattoos curling down his arms. The woman looked stronger, more muscular. Her blonde hair was cut short around her ears, and there was a cruel expression playing around her mouth. With a smile, Tiger settled into one of the white plastic chairs circling the pool. The moment he turned away, the argument resumed, but Tiger couldn’t make out much of it. Something about hunger, starvation. The man was carefully placating, but the women seemed to keep getting angrier and angrier. 

“You promised me,” she said, words suddenly loud and clear. “You promised you’d find someone and you lost the boy.” 

“There are thousands of people in this city,” the man said, “We’ll find another.” 

“Not soon enough,” the woman said, and then there was a creaking of the chair as she lay back against her seat. They didn’t say anything else after that. Evidently she’d decided the conversation was over. 

Tiger leaned down, pretending to untie his boots. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the man walking away from the woman, and staring into the water. The man wasn’t looking at him. The woman had her eyes closed. Tiger stood up. 

Any second now, Dick would be breaking through the window. And they wouldn’t get a better opportunity than this. 

Tiger started walking towards the man, for all intents and purposes heading towards the deep end. The woman didn’t seem aware of his movement, and the man was sitting now, feet dangling in the water. He could knock out the man before he even got a chance to use his abilities. Then he and Dick would outnumber the woman. Carefully, Tiger pulled out his gun. 

“Stop,” the man said, and his word sliced into Tiger’s mind, into his thoughts. It twisted in his skull, cold and cruel, and suddenly, Tiger couldn’t move. 

The man stood. There was a mean smile slicing across his face. 

_Mind control_ , Tiger thought. He should have been prepared for this. He shouldn’t have been so rash. 

“Drop the gun,” he said, and Tiger did. His thoughts were slow, as slow as ice melting. All he could think was _Stop, drop the gun, stop, drop the gun_. 

“Who are you?” the man asked, and Tiger didn’t answer. “What do you want?” 

The woman was standing now, and walking over. 

“Is his energy right?” she asked, gazing at Tiger appraisingly, like he was a piece of meat. 

“No,” the man said, and he ran a finger along Tiger’s cheek. “You might enjoy him anyway. Hold still,” he said, when Tiger shuddered away from his touch. 

Tiger felt his whole body go frigid, like frost was crawling across his skin. 

There was a sudden shattering noise, as one of the windows exploded inwards. The man turned away, covering his face with his arm, but Tiger couldn’t move. He felt glass carving into his skin. 

“Tiger!” he heard Dick’s voice shout, but he couldn’t turn to look at him. “Let him go.” 

“Stop,” the man said, standing in front of Tiger. Shards of glass went singing off his clothing, and he shot his arm up, pointing at Dick. “Stop!”

But Dick kept moving. The woman ran towards him, but Dick battered her away. He flipped her onto her back, and her head landed against the concrete with a crack. 

“Stop!” the man screamed, voice going shrill, “Stop it!”

It didn’t work. Dick kept barreling towards the man. 

Then, Tiger felt the man’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Kill him,” he said. The words were harsh, clawing through Tiger’s mind. 

And then he was heading for Dick. Dick’s eyes were suddenly wide, frightened.

They’d fought before, Tiger thought, the words unbearably quiet in his own head. They’d fought before and Dick had beaten him. There was no reason why’d he’d lose now. 

But he’d been holding back last time. Against Dick, he always held back. He couldn’t help it. 

He wouldn’t hold back this time. He couldn’t. He was going to kill him. 

The more he tried to fight it, the further he sank under the avalanche of the man’s words. He was going to kill Dick. He grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back, breaking it. 

He was going to kill him. He backhanded Dick, sent him flying towards the edge of the pool. Dick landed, smacking his chin into the edge. But he stood up again, and wiped the blood from his mouth. And then he was back on Tiger, raining blows onto his face, into his stomach. 

He was good, but he was too soft.

Tiger was going to kill him. Tiger was going to watch the life leave his body. It was Tiger’s fault. He was too weak. 

He grabbed Dick by the neck, swept his feet out from under him. Dick fell. His hands desperately scrabbled at Tiger’s arms. Tiger pushed him, sending his skull cracking against the edge of the pool, and then he was shoving Dick’s face under the water. 

He struggled, clawing at Tiger’s fingers, but Tiger was stronger. The water thrashed and turned dark with Dick’s blood, but Tiger didn’t let go. 

He was going to kill him. He was going to kill him, just like he’d killed Alia. Just like he’d killed his father. 

He was a killer. That was all he was. All he ever would be. 

Dick was getting weaker and weaker. 

He was going to die. He was going to die because of Tiger. Tiger loved him, but he’d kill him anyway. 

Tiger loved him. 

Dick stopped moving. 

Tiger loved him. He wouldn’t hurt him, not anymore, not for anything.

The man’s words disappeared from his mind. 

He let go, and Dick came shooting up out of the water, coughing. 

“Tiger,” he said, voice hoarse, but Tiger was already standing, walking away from him. 

The woman was unconscious, and the man was on the ground next to her. 

“No!” he screamed, “No! Kill him! Kill him!” 

The words barely registered. Tiger lifted his gun, and pressed the cool metal into the man’s temple. 

“Please,” the man said, “Please.” 

“Tiger,” Dick said, ragged. 

Tiger could imagine killing him. It would be so easy. He’d kill him, and then he’d kill the woman, and they’d never hurt anyone again. They’d never control anyone again. He should kill him. 

The man was whimpering. Thick tears were pouring down his cheeks. 

Tiger was a killer. 

He thought of his hands around Dick’s neck, biting into the soft skin. 

He was a killer. 

“Please,” the man said. 

He was a killer. Wasn’t he? 

What was he? 

“Tiger,” Dick said, and Tiger felt his anger go pouring out of him. He moved his finger from the trigger. 

“Dick,” he said, “Can you move?” 

“A little,” Dick replied. 

“Get the handcuffs out of my pocket,” Tiger said. Behind him, he could hear the sick slide of water and blood as Dick stood, and limped towards him. Carefully, he lifted out the power dampeners, and hooked them around the man’s wrist. 

Finally, Tiger pulled his gun away. 

“If you try anything,” he said to the man, “I will kill you. Do you understand?” 

The man nodded, trembling violently, and Tiger watched as Dick handcuffed the unconscious woman. His neck was covered in Tiger’s fingermarks. They were livid red against his pale skin. His face was bloody, and his wrist was broken. Tiger had done all of that to him. 

“I’ll call Spyral,” he said, and Dick nodded, collapsing into a chair. 

***

Less than an hour later, his agents came with a car to pick up the killers. Sometime around the half hour mark, the hotel manager had finally decided to investigate, and Dick was with him now, muttering something in soothing tones. Spyral could pay for the damage, but evidently the manager wasn’t used to his guests actually cleaning up their messes. 

His agents were subtle and quiet, not asking too many questions. They carted off the killers, and Dick calmed the manager enough that he went back to his post. Then it was just him and Tiger. 

“Do you need a hospital?” Tiger asked. Dick’s wrist was cradled carefully in his other hand, but he shook his head. 

“Do you?” he asked Tiger, and Tiger wanted to laugh. He hadn’t been hurt tonight. He’d been the one doing the hurting. 

He was going to be sick.

“Woah, hold on,” Dick said, as Tiger started swaying, “What happened? Are you alright?”

Tiger fell into a chair, and Dick wrapped a hand around his neck, looking at Tiger, a worried wrinkle between his eyebrows. 

“I’m fine,” Tiger said, but he knew he wasn’t. It had been a long time, since someone had controlled him like that. It never got easier. It never felt less like he was wasting away inside his own head. 

“Liar,” Dick said, but there was something gentle in his voice. Almost friendly. He was acting like he’d forgiven Tiger.

Trust Dick Grayson to forgive someone after they tried to kill him. 

“I almost killed you,” Tiger said. “I broke your wrist.” 

“You didn’t kill me,” Dick said, blithe, “And really, that asshole broke my wrist. He’s the one who told you to go after me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tiger said, feeling bile rise in his throat, “I almost killed you. And if I had, I would have _remembered_ it. I would have known what it felt like.” 

Dick was quiet, expression suddenly solemn. 

“You’re right,” he said, squeezing the back of Tiger’s neck. “But you broke through his control. We both did.” 

“Barely.”

“How did you do it anyway?” Dick asked, finally pulling his hand away and standing. He stretched his arm across his chest. “I know it didn’t work on me because I was… I don’t know. Enraged, I guess. Because of what he did to Mary, and that family. And you.” 

He ran a hand through his hair, and smiled sheepishly. 

“I guess all that anger’s good for something. How about you? Were you angry too?”

Tiger looked up at him. Even beat to hell, with a black eye, a torn-up chin, and angry fingermarks curling around his neck like a pearl necklace, Dick was beautiful. He was beautiful, and he was kind, and Tiger had hurt him. But he wouldn’t, ever again. He wouldn’t let himself. 

“I broke through because I love you,” he said, and the easy smile dropped from Dick’s lips. 

“What?” he said. 

“I love you. That’s why I couldn’t kill you. I wouldn’t let myself.” 

“Oh,” Dick said, and Tiger was so, so tired. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, staring down at his hands, tangled together in his lap. The blood on them was finally drying, coming off in light flakes. “You don’t have to say anything. It doesn’t matter.”

Suddenly, Dick was dropping to his knees, and cupping Tiger’s chin in his good hand. The grin on his face was wild, and uncontrollable. 

“You’re an idiot,” he said, and then he was kissing Tiger. He tasted like chlorine, and the copper tang of blood, and his movements were sloppy, but Tiger loved him, he loved him. He curled his hands around Dick’s neck, into the wet ringlets of hair at the nape of his neck, and he kissed him. He kissed him. Why hadn't they been doing this all along? 

Far too soon, Dick was pulling away. 

“Holy shit,” he said, eyes bright, “I wish I had a time machine.”

“What?” Tiger said. His eyes were following Dick’s lips. 

“I want to go back and tell past you that you’ll fall in love with me,” Dick said, “You’d have been so pissed.” 

“That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”

“Well, yeah.” 

“I take it back,” Tiger said, pulling away, “I don’t love you.”

But before he could get much farther, Dick was kissing him again. It was softer this time. Sweeter. 

“We’re going to have a lot to talk about,” Dick said, tugging his lips less than an inch away, “And you’re going to have to meet my _family_.”

“I take it all back,” Tiger said, burying his head in the crook of Dick’s shoulder, “I never want to see you again.”

“Liar,” Dick said, and he leaned in to kiss Tiger.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://paramountie.tumblr.com/)!


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